by Sasha Martin
Hot Algerian Lasagna
This dish blends traditional Italian lasagna with chickpeas, potatoes, ground lamb, and a healthy dose of cayenne pepper. Although the recipe is an invention of my own, inspired by the work of Clifford A. Wright, Algeria does have strong connections to Italy—not the least of which is the Trans-Mediterranean pipeline, which runs from Algeria, through Tunisia, into Italy.
Harissa and cayenne pepper provide the punch for this dish. Dried harissa mix can be found in the spice section of some supermarkets, whereas wet pastes are more often sold in Middle Eastern markets. A teaspoon of cayenne makes the lasagna mild—double this for good burn. Cayenne pepper’s heat is rated in “heat units.” This recipe was made with a 35,000 cayenne, which is on the low end of the scale. With a 90,000 cayenne, only ⅓ of the cayenne pepper will be needed for the same kick. Most spice companies include this information on their spices.
For a more budget-friendly version, ground chicken or beef may be substituted though the result will be leaner, too.
For the filling:
A few glugs olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 pound ground lamb
A couple cloves garlic, crushed
½ teaspoon ground cumin
¼ teaspoon ground caraway
1 tablespoon harissa, prepared
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper, or more to taste
Salt
1 heaping tablespoon tomato paste
One 15-ounce can tomato puree or sauce, plus an 8-ounce can (2½ cups total)
One 15-ounce can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
2 medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and ½-inch diced (about 2 cups or 10 ounces diced)
½ cup water, or as needed
For assembly:
15 ounces ricotta
2 eggs
2 cups (½ pound) shredded Gruyère
2 cups shredded mozzarella
1 pound no-boil lasagna sheets
In a large skillet over medium-high heat, sauté the onion in a couple glugs of olive oil until golden. Add the lamb, and brown for a good 5 to 10 minutes, breaking it into small chunks with a wooden spoon along the way. Reduce heat and stir in the garlic, cumin, caraway, harissa, cayenne, and salt. Cook for a few minutes, until fragrant. Add tomato paste, 15 ounces of puree, chickpeas, cubed potatoes, and ½ cup water. Increase heat to bring to a bubble. Cover and simmer until potatoes are just tender—about 15 to 20 minutes, adding extra water if needed. Check seasonings, adding more salt and cayenne if desired.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. In a small bowl, mix ricotta with eggs and 1 cup Gruyère cheese. Add salt to taste.
To assemble lasagna:
Spread a glug of olive oil and half the remaining tomato puree on the bottom of a 9 × 13-inch (3-quart) casserole. Next, add a layer of lasagna noodles, a quarter of the ricotta mixture, a quarter of the lamb mixture, and ⅓ cup mozzarella cheese. Repeat three times. Finally, end with a layer of noodles and remaining puree sprinkled with remaining Gruyère and mozzarella. Cover with aluminum foil, and bake 55 minutes. Remove foil, and bake 5 minutes further to brown. Let rest a good 30 minutes before slicing.
Enough for 8
The blogging and cooking adventure consumes me so deeply that I wonder if I’m taking too much time away from my family. If, by flailing headlong into some imagined, perfect future, I’m stretching Keith too far, perhaps testing his steadfastness—and by extension, his love for me. Is this culinary adventure adding to the joy of the moment—or circumventing it?
When I get to Angola, I happen across a five-volume collection called The World Cookbook for Students, an encyclopedia of world recipes. It’s like the global cookbook jackpot, with recipes for every country in the world plus many territories and principalities. Even though the collection costs more than $200, I order it immediately. I tell Keith it will free me up since I won’t have to spend so much time researching. He nods in agreement a little too readily, relief written on his face.
When the book arrives, I flip to Angola and pick out a recipe for bâton de manioc, a grated cassava root packet steamed inside a skinny banana leaf envelope. Cassava root looks like a fat, brown carrot, with the texture of a hard potato. A South African friend explains that I’ll be able to find the cassava and the banana leaves at the African market down the road. She says it nonchalantly, as though it is totally normal to have an African market a mile and a half down the road, in the middle of Middle America. I must have driven past it a thousand times, yet never noticed it.
As I work on my adaptation, I compare the recipe with a few others. Several suggest I soak the cassava for two days, then grate it, mound it into packets, and steam them for six hours. All this work seems a bit over the top, but I have no one to ask. So I follow the instructions and soak the cassava.
On cooking day, I peel through the tough brown exterior, more like bark than skin. The inside is pristine—white and smooth. I tell Keith I cannot wait to taste it. He doesn’t look so sure.
The initial excitement fades when I spend the next hour and a half grating the cassava. Tough fibers thread through the woody core, making the job even more difficult. My biceps and shoulders burn as I hurry to grind them down and make the packets before Ava wakes up.
My cheeks flush. My forehead glistens. Bits of cassava flick onto the counter, the floor. In the midst of this mess, I imagine myself living in Angola. I read that in the small villages equipped only with outdoor kitchens, neighbors come together to help each other make food. The social contact makes quick work of the arduous task.
But my kitchen, ample though it is, is silent. There is no grandmother, no mother at my side. I spoon the paste into the banana leaves and roll them up into long, green cigars. By the time Ava wakes up, my knuckles are raw, and the sun is low in the cotton sky.
That night, we eat the bâtons de manioc with some friends and their small child. Keith takes one tight-lipped bite before putting the packet down. Ava does the same. Our guests nibble politely around theirs. Everyone reaches for the traditional Angolan stew I prepared, made with chicken, okra, pumpkin, and red palm oil.
I should be happy they’re enjoying something, but I cannot help staring at the neglected green bâtons. There are 20 in the stack. I think about the hours I spent grating. Unwilling to let the work go to waste, I wolf down one, then two, then three. The gummy mixture tastes like a combination of steamed artichokes and a mild starch, like potato. I’m not sure if I’m eating them because I’m hungry or because I want to show Keith what a real appetite is. By the time I get up from the table, I’ve eaten six.
After our guests go home and Ava goes to bed, Keith and I argue about the leftovers. I want to save the cassava and the chicken, but he says there’s only room for one. His vote is for the chicken, which I take as blatant disregard for my bloody knuckles. It’s a stupid fight, but for some reason it feels like it matters.
The longer we argue, the weirder I feel. There’s no pain, just a stretching, an expanding, as if there’s an enormous balloon in my stomach. The distention becomes so uncomfortable that I switch into sweats and go to bed early, leaving Keith to deal with the leftovers. I drift into a fitful sleep, waking up around midnight when Ava cries out for her first feeding of the night. I’m still nursing, so I am surprised to hear Keith get out of bed. His footsteps are muffled, as though I’m listening from inside a fishbowl. I wonder if she’s been crying a long time.
I slide out of bed to go to her, but no sooner do I stand up than I crash to the floor. I land on all fours, but the carpet fibers feel like knives. My bones, my joints feel like the edges of a shattered chandelier. Still, I know Ava needs me. I stumble to my feet and track through the bedroom, dragging my hand along the wall to steady myself. By the time I reach the dining room, my ears buzz, my temples throb, and stars flood my vision. The room shrinks like a candle without oxygen. I wonder, vaguely, if I’m dying.
The room goes completely black just as Keith thrusts Ava into my arms. I
open my mouth to say something, but the words don’t come.
Suddenly I’m sideways, crashing into something hard. The last thing I hear is a grating metal sound.
“Sasha, Sasha, wake up.” Keith shakes my shoulder.
My face is pressed against the living room carpet, my left arm lies across one of our bar stools. Keith kneels beside me with Ava in his arms, whimpering.
“What happened? You almost dropped her, Sash. She was dangling upside down when I took her from you. Her head was two feet from cracking onto the kitchen tiles,” he whispers.
When I shake my head, the small movement brings on a wave of nausea I cannot control. Afterward, Keith helps me back to bed.
The next day, the doctor listens to my story with squinted eyes and pronounces the culprit: dehydration. I’ve been dehydrated before, I tell him. This has nothing to do with dehydration.
I ask him if the two falls could be the result of something I ate. I mention the bâtons de manioc, the strange ingredient, and the complex preparation, but he just smiles over his spectacles. He hooks me up to an IV of fluids and sends me on my way.
The dismissal irritates me. That night I look up cassava poisoning, finding my way to several sites including Ohio State University’s Research News. One word jumps off the screen: cyanide. Apparently, the woody fibers inside cassava contain a form of the poison: “An unprocessed cassava plant contains potentially toxic levels of a cyanogen called linamarin. The proper processing of cassava—drying, soaking in water, rinsing, or baking—effectively reduces cassava’s linamarin content. But shortcut processing techniques can yield toxic food products.”
Even though I soaked the cassava and cooked it for hours, nothing would change the fact that I grated the tough fibers right into the packets. With such small traces of the toxin, no one else was affected. But eating so many of them was another story. I’d emptied my stomach and then some; only spending an hour hooked up to the IV had brought color back to my cheeks.
Continuing my search, I land on a page from Hong Kong’s Centre for Food Safety site, which warns: “The clinical signs of acute cyanide intoxication include rapid respiration, drop in blood pressure, rapid pulse, dizziness, headache, stomach pain, vomiting, diarrhea, mental confusion, twitching, and convulsions. Death due to cyanide poisoning can occur when the cyanide level exceeds the limit an individual is able to detoxify.”
The people of Angola grow up knowing these dangers inherently. Their elders teach the others to soak and grate the cassava. In Angola, the risks of cooking are balanced out by cooking in community.
In the afternoon, I look over the kitchen, peppered with creature comforts: a microwave, a bread machine, an indoor kitchen, for goodness’ sakes. For the first time, I feel the emptiness of cooking without the wisdom of the ages at my side: How little these conveniences matter when there’s no guiding hand to help keep us safe. I pull the cassava sticks from the refrigerator and toss them in the trash. The next day I donate my microwave and give a friend my bread machine.
When I tell Mom what happened, she groans. “Doctors are such idiots. I hope you fired him. Of course, it’s the cassava.”
“But the website says the cassava in the United States is supposed to be cyanide free. They treat it with some kind of … wash?”
“Nonsense! Are you going to trust your body or what’s supposed to be?”
“Well, it sure would be easier if I knew what the hell I was doing,” I say. “What kind of mother am I, to risk my child’s life like that?”
“Yes, that’s scary,” she agrees. Then she brightens. “Maybe you should focus on recipes that are going to work for your family, Sash. That’s all. Don’t try so hard to be shocking. I’m sure Keith’s not a fan of all this fuss, anyway.”
Muamba de Galinha
This spicy Angolan chicken stew presents none of the difficulties of bâtons de manioc. It’s a homey chop-and-simmer, one-pot dinner. The unique red tint and bold flavor come from red palm oil, the oil of choice in West Africa. Expats say it tastes like home, but the carrot-colored paste (that sets up at room temperature, like butter) is certainly an acquired taste. Angolans use the oil with abandon—doubling the amount I used here would not be unheard of—but I find a restrained hand goes a long way. It is available in ethnic grocers, certain natural grocers, and online.
Although this rendition makes my nose sniffle, feel free to add more chilies to taste. Angolans don’t hold back. The stew certainly can be served on its own, but it tastes great with boiled yucca, or served over rice.
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
4 large garlic cloves, crushed
A generous pinch of salt
1½ teaspoons chili powder
4 to 5 whole chicken legs
¼ to ⅓ cup red palm oil
2 large onions, chopped
3 tomatoes, quartered
1 habanero pepper, as desired
1 cup water
Salt and pepper
1 small pumpkin (about 1½ pounds), to make 1 pound cubed
½ pound okra (fresh or frozen), sliced in rounds
Mix lemon juice, zest, crushed garlic, salt, and chili powder, and rub into the chicken. Cover and refrigerate for an hour or overnight.
Heat a large pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the oil, and brown the chicken, 5 to 10 minutes a side. Avoid crowding. Do this in several batches if needed. Next, cook the onions until soft and beginning to brown. Tip in the remaining marinade and tomatoes. Slit the habanero in half (or, for more fire, chop it), and toss into the mix. Splash in the water, and season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook at a gentle bubble for 30 to 45 minutes, or until the chicken is tender.
Meanwhile, peel, seed, and cut the pumpkin into 1.5-inch cubes. Stir the pumpkin and sliced okra into the broth, cover, and continue bubbling until all ingredients are cooked through, a good 30 minutes. Adjust seasoning. Serve hot.
Enough for 4 to 6
CHAPTER 24
Stove Top Travel
BY NOW MY BLOG, Global Table Adventure, has a sprinkling of devoted readers, and I cannot imagine telling them I almost killed myself with the very recipe I suggested they try. I don’t want my ignorance to reflect on the Angolan people; it’s not their fault I screwed up. Ultimately, I decide to modify the recipe with clearer instructions and to keep my mouth shut about my reaction.
Still, the incident has repercussions. Keith is increasingly cool on the project, and I find myself wondering if the adventure is a risk to my daughter’s safety. After all, I could have unwittingly passed the cyanide—or whatever it was—through my milk to her.
But somehow I cannot stop cooking. Though I’ve yet to make a meal from a country I’ve lived in or experienced firsthand, this adventure reawakens deep-seated yearnings. The photos and stories of the world’s people lure me, inviting me to taste, explore, and imagine myself elsewhere. I feel young once again, as I was in Europe, with infinity at my fingertips. But where those voyages were bandages for a broken heart, these new journeys will launch me toward the uncharted life I crave. They must.
That March, we sip bittersweet grapefruit sparklers from Antigua and Barbuda. Even the summery glow of our curried chicken salad sandwiches and the heat from our jalapeño-studded mango and avocado salad do nothing to take the chill from the air.
“Did you know ‘Antigua and Barbuda’ is actually made of more than two islands? Behold Redonda.” I pull up a photo on my laptop.
“It looks like The Little Prince’s planet,” Keith laughs. At less than a square mile, the barren spine of rock looks oddly out of scale.
“There are 82,000 people in the country, with Redonda contributing exactly zero. There’s no fresh water. Heck, it’s more cliff than anything,” I add “But get this—there are four kings who claim Redonda as their own.”
A daydream is born: We sit in oversize thrones on that bald rock while sipping tumblers of the pink grapefruit drink. We finish our meal warm.
With Tulsa under an
icing of snow, we imagine heating our hands over the crackling campfire kitchen of the famous Argentine chef Francis Mallmann. As we bite into our smaller rendition of the enormous pumpkins he roasts beneath embers, we can almost smell the same charred crust of the oven-roasted acorn squash, and see Patagonia’s yellowed grasslands through the eyes of a gaucho, a South American cowboy.
For Australia, we’re stockmen journeying into the heart of the great down under. We tear into kangaroo kebabs (purchased frozen four miles away, at Harvard Meats), palmfuls of damper bread (pretending we’ve cooked the baking soda mixture in ash), along with beet- and fried egg-topped Aussie burgers. When our motorcycle buddies contribute to the potluck, the backyard becomes the outback. On my face, I feel the orange glow of Uluru—that enormous sandstone rock that burns at sunset above the brush.
These daydreams give the weekly feasts dimension. We are no longer just eating like tourists; our imaginations now reside in a different country every week. “It’s better than TV,” I tell Keith. I ask if he thinks I should include our daydreams in my weekly posts.
“Absolutely!” he says, “You can be your readers’ tour guide.”
But our fantasies feel private, like the fairy tales Toni, Michael, and I reworked once upon a time in Atlanta—too silly to share beyond our small circle.
I hold back.
Roasted Acorn Squash With Arugula & Chèvre
This unusual salad is adapted from Francis Mallmann. To streamline the recipe for home cooks, I swap his campfire-roasted pumpkin for a more manageable oven-roasted acorn squash (a grill works well here, too). One half makes the perfect portion size, enough for a light meal, or as an impressive starter in a larger feast.
I suggest letting guests assemble their own hot salad at the table. Provide a shallow bowl to hold the squash and 2 small spoons per person so that they can smash the ingredients together themselves. Oregano-mint dressing pulls together the peppery arugula and tang of goat cheese, making this hot salad an unforgettable experience worthy of regular rotation.